In Death's Image
by The Carnivorous Muffin
Summary: Cold and analytical, Isabella Swan sees the world through shaded eyes, remembering what she can't forget.
1. The Dead Wept Thus

**Author's note: To you readers out there, be warned this is INCREDIBLY AU—all the characters are out of character and there are OC's (yay). **

**The lyrics in between sections are from Hellfire, Hunchback of Notre Dame. YAY DISNEY! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about. **

_The Dead Wept Thus_

Bella Swan dies in the rain, her carefree adolescent soul slipping from the mortal world in a heavy downpour of spilled blood. The heavy, sticky droplets fall to the carpet in an abstract explosion of red smears; crimson trails curl about the house like a python weaves around its helpless prey, encircling the small creature until it is crushed by the predator's massive weight. To compress and press, suffocate and asphyxiate; to slaughter and butcher is its life.

The rain does not cleanse the drenched—it drowns them.

The executioners wield no knives in their pale, slender hands bloodied with the art of death, the art of murder. The wingless angels use their own hands to tear the skin from the flesh; their crimson eyes burn with the bloodlust that consumes them. The scarlet rain flows onto their snow-white skin, staining it forevermore with its sorrow, its cold, unspoken mourning: the grief of the dead.

The human cowers in terror; fear paralyzes her as she watches them tear her family limb from bloody limb, drinking the warm liquid oozing out of their lifeless bodies as they do so. She hides from their merciless gazes—oh, how she hides, as if it justifies her watching, her helpless, powerless, immobilized watching.

They are drunk on their power, these destroying angels, these gods of death, intoxicated on the blood that drips into their mouths, the cannibalistic revel that they partake in. They stumble and laugh at the chaos they have created, and each whoop and holler sounds like the peals of bells. The triumphant joy echoes through the room, terrible in its beauty and horror.

These monsters, these angels, these gods, these demons… they leave all for dead as they suck them dry, leaving only hollow shells that used to be human, forgetting in their lust and greed to look for the silent witness who stares out from behind the closet door.

_Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti _

_I confess to God almighty_

The Isabella Swan that Charlie had been expecting did not step off the plane into the hustle and bustle of the airport. The daughter he had known for the past seventeen years had upped and left him with the dark and rather brooding girl that stood before him.

She had grown taller, he dimly noted, and her height was, no doubt, further increased by the obsidian boots she wore and the weight she had lost. Her pale skin practically glowed beside the gothic articles of clothing she had selected as that day's garb. Every individual inch of the ebony fabric accented the change within her, but perhaps the greatest shift in his daughter was her expression—grim and bitter, it looked like the face of a criminal rather than that of a seventeen-year-old girl.

"Hello, Charlie," she said glumly, her pale, drawn face betraying none of her thoughts. Such a change. The girl who had once worn her heart on her sleeve was now as readable as a closed book penned in ciphered Klingon.

Two words. Two simple, two syllable, familiar words. That was all.

Who is this girl, he wondered, and where had his daughter gone?

That was the last she spoke to him that day. For the whole three hour car trip from Port Angeles to his home town of Forks Washington, there was not a single word. Oh, that's not to say he didn't try to talk to her, this gothic adolescent, but she seemed to deem it unworthy to respond to any of his attempts at conversation.

She would simply stare out at the rain pounding against the car window, her dark eyes roaming the green landscape as it rushed by, her pale fingers tapping a rhythm out on the car's leather seat. Not a single word would escape her tightly closed lips.

Her eyes, he had noticed, seemed darker, as if the light had been drained out of them; dark circles drooped below them, betraying her lack of sleep in the past year. She looked tired as she stared off into the distance; her mind was weary of carrying itself along the broken path of rehabilitation. But still… she was doing well, for being Bella.

One year ago, Isabella Swan had been the sole witness to the brutal murder of both her mother and step father. Inside the Arizona home the police had found two grotesquely mutilated corpses, the victims of what they believed to be gang violence; their teenage daughter had been found cowering in a closet, her thin, pale arms hugging her knees to her chest, all the while screaming as she looked up into the faces of her rescuers.

They had claimed it was a sound that could have raised the dead.

That was the last seen of his Bella, his daughter. The girl now living in Forks was not his daughter. She hardly even resembled his daughter. Bella Swan was dead. In her place was a gothic shadow with a silver cross dangling from her neck

_Beatae Mariae simper Virgini _

_To blessed Mary ever Virgin_

This was Hell. This sea of trees, this ocean of endless forests, was Hell. There was no doubt in Isabella Swan's mind as she stared out her window at the familiar surroundings of the house. Oh, how she hated this place, this water-logged hell-hole, this small-town, gossip-filled rat-nest.

The room itself hadn't changed—still the epitome of the small-town lifestyle, still the same pastel paint colored the walls, still the same wood desk with its Jane Austen novel stacks… even the same bed, with its childish comforter, lay against one side of the room invitingly. Isabella sneered at the familiarity. As if Charlie thought it would be comforting for her to live in the same damn room as before. As if she could still fit within the brightly colored décor and not look out of place, like a penguin in a science fiction convention.

Same plain, mundane room. The same room she had seen all her life for two weeks every summer. Oh, how Charlie must have loved the familiarity, but Isabella—Isabella had been fleeing the familiarity for quite a while, running from the familiar faces of her peers, avoiding the recognizable street corners, letting the gossip trickle right through her. She turned from the gossip, the whispers, the piteous gazes, the self-righteous belief that they should feel sorry for her. As if they had any idea what had gone on in that house; as if they had loved the blood that had been drawn from the bodies. They believed they knew the truth, and that she was the delusional one.

Confusion, delusion, incomprehension, dementia; oh, how men worked to keep themselves blissful in innocence and ignorance and oh, how they wept when they failed.

What pious fools who filled the world with their lies, their ignorant lies—for it is only the greatest fool who isn't aware that he is a liar. The silver tongued serpent hiding among the branches, the hand that holds the apple, the mirror that reflects the monster…. Who is truly guilty—the deceived who took the bite or the deceived who offered the fruit?

Fate is not kind to those who ignore her workings.

Isabella knew this.

Bella had failed to realize this; Bella had died in denial of this. Bella had been shut into darkness, believing that good things happened to only those who deserve it, and that the wicked would be punished. It was Isabella, born into the darkness the dead left in their wake, who realized the truth.

_All men are born to die. It is their destiny; it is their one true right. _

'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.' Isabella had seen that valley, she had walked through that great shadow, and she had felt no god walking beside her.

_I will fear no evil. I will see no evil. I will hear no evil. I will speak no evil. _

Blood stained the earth beneath the feet of men; it flowed like a river, trickling down the cleanly streets of the cities; it fell from the sky in drops of rain. Death was in everything. Even in the rain.

_Beato Michaeli archangelo_

_To the blessed archangel Michael_

She didn't sleep. That was one of the first things Charlie learned about Isabella (because she was certainly no longer Bella). He hadn't noticed at first. On the earliest nights, he thought it was the rain—something that must have been deafening after living in the desert all her life. But it soon became obvious that she didn't have a normal sleep pattern and that she didn't expect herself to hold one.

The first night, she humored him, trudging upstairs diligently and sitting in her room, twiddling her thumbs for twelve hours. What a joke to find her five days later sitting down stairs reading 'The Lord of the Flies' at three a.m. because she was bored of staring at wallpaper.

"The rain is unusually loud tonight," she said, closing her book and looking up towards the ceiling. "I hope you don't mind that I came down here; it was hard to sleep with the noise." Then she smiled a pseudo, forced smile that reminded him vaguely of the girl he used to know—the terrible liar.

And yet, Charlie simply nodded and turned to go back upstairs, where his bed awaited him. He didn't bother to tell her that it had stopped raining. He had no doubt that she already knew.

_Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis_

_To the holy apostles, to all the saints_

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" The gangly adolescent smiled, confident in his speech and mannerism. The girl's dark eyes moved over him once, analyzing, and then dropped back to her desk to observe the casually written notes from years prior.

"So, where's your next class?" Eric slicked back his greasy black hair in nervousness, watching as the girl continued to stare blankly down at her desk. Finally, her eyes turned away from the gray surface to meet Eric's.

"Government, the root of all hypocrisy; Jefferson, the sixth building." She smiled, amused by some thought, and chuckled, turning her attention away from Eric once again.

Despite the bell having rung, Eric noticed that she seemed in no hurry to rush over to building six, even though she must have been hopelessly lost due to this being her first day on campus. She didn't seem to notice the way everyone would stare at her; it was practically as if she didn't know she was an anomaly. She looked almost like a black and white photograph, with the color drained away from her skin and clothing. But even then, it wasn't the gothic clothes or the obsidian combat boots that had caught Eric's attention—it was her eyes, her dark brown eyes that saw everything, that, with one analytical look, could create a force disturbingly similar to a slap in the face.

With certain reluctance she stood, hoisting her back pack up onto her shoulder and walking out the door. Eric had to practically run in time to grab his rain jacket and catch up with her. He hadn't even mentioned that his class was in building four, "ridiculously close to hers"—or that's what he would have told her.

"So, this is different from Phoenix?" Eric could have slapped himself for stupidity. He knew Phoenix was different—Hell, what person didn't? Phoenix was a desert, practically another planet compared to Forks.

She stopped, ignoring the rain that poured from the sky, oblivious to the mob of students listening in on their conversation. Her shoulders hunched over and began to shake with a laughter barely audible over the rain pounding against the sidewalk.

"Why did you ask me that when you already know the answer?" she shouted back at him, barely attempting to repress her uncontrollable snickers. Without his prompting, she continued to speak. "It doesn't rain much, if that's what you're wondering. Very different, weather-wise. Phoenix is in no danger of flooding." She continued chuckling between gasped words.

Eric swallowed, still determined to finish the conversation, asked his next stupid, obvious, question. "You don't look very tan."

Of course she didn't look tan. Isabella looked like a ghost, like a dead girl come back from the dead to haunt the living.

"Incredible. The boy has eyes, and yet doesn't posses the brain power to use them." She smiled again, this time directly at him, before walking away towards Government class in building six.

It took Eric a moment to realize how soaked he must be from standing in the rain so long, and how late he was going to be to class for talking with the bizarre new girl.

_Et tibit Pater_

_And to you father_

Children are the future.

The next generation must be prepared for what awaits. So here they are, thrown together, the girls with boys, into a montage of hormonal meltdowns and social gatherings. The place itself has almost nothing to do with education—oh, yes, there are teachers and academics, but no one really pays mind to those.

Forks High school: the small town with an even smaller high school, the place where everyone knows your name and personal history, the charming little community where people know you the instant they see your face. Isabella never had much tolerance for closely knit communities; being dragged to Forks had not changed things.

Driving in high style in a beat-up crimson Monster Truck, Isabella sighed as she noticed the stares—all the wide, naïve eyes staring up at her in… what? Shock, surprise, horror? What was it like, she wondered, to watch a small, ebony-clad girl drive up in a truck the size of an army tank? Terrifying, by the looks of it. Their heads quickly whipped away as she jumped out splashing in a puddle.

It never stopped raining in Washington. The air, it seemed, had more water than oxygen, making it perfectly plausible to drown in early morning mist. Her eyes roved over the outdoor campus, watching the students scurry about, laughing and chatting with one another.

She smiled, thinking about how ironic that she, the girl from the desert, should be paler than every one of them. At that thought, the smile slipped from her face. The absence of the sun was beginning to worry her. The dark clouds looming ominously over the sun seemed… uncomfortable. She missed the bright orb hanging cheerily, obliviously, in the sky, protecting her from the dark creatures of her memory.

The things she was forced to remember, the things that wouldn't let her forget.

She breathed in the damp air, clutching the silver cross dangling from her neck, then turned and walked towards the administrative office, tucking away her fears and nightmares from the eye of careless humans.

_Quia peccavi nimis_

_That I have sinned_

Charlie Swan was out of ideas. As he stared blankly at yet another game of baseball, he realized that he had nothing left to say to her.

The dark girl living within his house was a mystery, a confusing Chinese puzzle that he had neither the time nor patience to solve. Back when he had been a younger man, he remembered being obsessed with an object called a Rubik's Cube; every hour of every day had been spent on that damn contraption. Eventually, he had tossed it aside, proclaiming that one matching side was more than most people could do.

He turned to watch his daughter sitting behind him, tightly gripping a book between her pale hands as her dark eyes practically burned the text with their intensity.

Another cheer traveled through the television set, drawing his attention back to the game and away from his dark-haired daughter. He tried to ignore the dull scratching of pencil against paper and the cold analytical commentary that would peek out of the book's thin pages. Before he had looked in her books, he had never known just how thorough she could be when thinking about the many implications of the book Dracula. Tiny notes written in block-like letters covered nearly every page, each one painting another piece of that Chinese puzzle.

What confused him was the countless reference to Christianity within the text. Bible verses were a common form of personal annotation in that particular book, but last he had checked, he would have sworn Bella had never touched a Bible, let alone been able to quote it.

He hadn't meant to look through the books. Not at first. The desire had built up through the constant scratching of graphite, through the drumming of pale, slender fingers against the cheap wooden table, through the icy brown analytical gaze of his only daughter.

Dracula had been the first book he had found; the ebony cover had somehow managed to chill him to the bone. What had happened to Jane Austin? Charles Dickens? All the authors she used to worship—had they all disappeared from her life?

Even as he read his daughter's scribbled words, he found them cryptic. Most, he realized, were notes attempting to rationalize or cross reference vampire lore. Sunlight and running water were common themes within the margins, occurring several times on each page and all across the cover's inside. It was amazing, Charlie found, how much a father could not know about his daughter.

He never brought up her books, or the notes she wrote in them. Charlie found that he preferred not to know. He would rather be left in the dark than to learn what really went on in this dark mind.

_Cogitatione _

_In thought_

Isabella was lost within a sea of adolescents; she felt their doubts and insecurities weigh her down, dragging her to the ocean's bottom. She hoped that somehow, she made them feel better, that her own misfortune allowed them to believe that they were better than her; allowed them to think that they would never have such a troubled life as Isabella Swan, daughter of a murdered mother and stepfather… victims of _gang violence_.

Gang violence had nothing to do with what had happened. She remembered the day clearly, as if she were still there, trapped in that bleeding closet, her breath ragged and hoarse from holding in her screams, her trembling limbs held closely to her body as she could do nothing but watch.

They were so beautiful. Even as they had torn her family apart, they had glowed in their perfection. The blood that soaked their pale hands only added to their grace; their crimson eyes laughed and danced with joy as the blood dripped from their mouths; their golden hair cascaded down their backs in gentle waves, somehow untouched by the scarlet waste.

Isabella had never had time or patience for Gods. Whether it be the Christian God or the Hindu gods (and everything in between—Greek, Roman, Sumerian, Egyptian, Babylonian, Celtic), they had all seemed temperamental and too easy to displease. Isabella had believed herself master of her own fate until she saw _them_ that day.

They, the flesh-eating angels.

She didn't know why they hadn't found her shivering in a closet; didn't know why their dark eyes hadn't seen through her pathetic attempt at hiding. But as day broke, the demonic angels smiled, licking the crimson stains from their full lips, and danced gracefully out of the room, their laughter sounding like the tinkling of wind chimes in a summer breeze.

Isabella didn't leave her hiding place until the policemen came and forced her out. She hadn't wanted to abandon the one place where she could still lie to herself and pretend everything was alright, and yet, they tore her from that resting place, that sacred haven, and threw her out into the cold, bloody, world where her mother was dead and demons existed.

The closet was a lie. The closet was safe. _Why _did they believe that she had _wanted _to leave the closet?

Could no one comprehend that perhaps, Isabella hadn't wanted to know? That she hadn't wanted to be questioned, interrogated, grilled for the identity of the killers? After all, how could she possibly have told them the truth—looked them in the eyes and told them that a pair of demons with golden hair and crimson eyes had torn her mother limb from limb in an intricate dance that made even slaughter look beautiful?

Bella Swan died inside a closet, choking on the spilt blood of her mother and step-father. In her place, Isabella rose from the ashes. Cynical and morbid, she took what was left of herself and walked into therapy each morning staring blankly at the doctor and wondering what he would have done in her place. She walked through the hallways of her school, watching each pitying glance and wondering what they would do if they ever truly understood what had happened.

The staring is what drove her to Forks—the ceaseless pity of strangers, the whispers of old women and teachers. She didn't need their help and she didn't want it. At first, she had thought that if she stayed away from her father, no one would ask too many questions… but even Charlie with his betrayed looks was better than the suffering the _superiority _of endless speculation and pseudo-empathetic gazes.

Anything was better than Phoenix.

_Verbo et opera_

_In word and deed_

Jessica Stanly was something that didn't take too much effort for Isabella to comprehend. The girl was small and thin with wild, curly hair. The dark ringlets springing from her head seemed to embody the entirety of her personality. Verbose and energetic, Jessica had decided to take it upon herself to change the new girl's ways. Isabella felt it might have had to do with the eyes locked on her own dark figure. Jessica was the spotlight seeker, forever being pushed upstage by petty dramas. To her, Isabella Swan was simply another way to find herself within that bright circle of artificial lighting.

Still, Isabella found herself indulging the wiry girl with offhand remarks about the weather in Phoenix, her family, past relations, hobbies. The lies flowed easier now. There were no longer any awkward chuckles, or pleading eyes; she no longer stammered over personal details of her life… her perfect, imaginary life, where Isabella Swan was an ordinary girl with a great appetite for classics and a vocabulary to show for it. Jessica didn't need to know about the late nights or the obsession that consumed them.

Jessica didn't need to know vampires and demons. Isabella herself sometimes wondered whether it was worth knowing, whether it was worth the isolation it brought her. The first nights in Forks, when the rain had pounded against the windows, she would stare at the white-plaster-spiked ceiling, contemplating her choices in life.

But Isabella wasn't a liar; she found that despite the turns and twists in her life, she still could not _lie_. Oh, the petty things yes, the small personal details—those were easy. But the true lying, to lie about her very being… that was impossible. It was not in Isabella's nature to heal. She would simply limp onwards, refusing to stop and wait for death as he surely waited for her. Time would not heal her wounds; time would not turn back on itself and provide the girl she used to be.

The Phoenix police had let her go after only a few rounds of questioning. They had believed her to be in shock, unable to speak. After that, she had found herself standing outside the police station, feeling like an empty shell devoid of everything she had once believed in. It meant nothing to her anymore. Who was Jane Austin but a human? What was the arid desert but a pile of ground up rocks? Everything she had loved had dripped out of her, replaced by a feeling of meaninglessness. Within that moment of self-examination, though, she found something else, something that hadn't existed before, an obsession waiting to burst into existence… a fierce desire to know what she had seen that day.

Isabella never looked back. She instead moved forward, dragging her wounded limbs behind her as she gazed towards the horizon.

**Author's note: Read and review.**


	2. Nighttime Coming

**Author's note: I have readers? With this AU of a fic? Wow, thank you, readers and reviewers (didn't think I'd have any) and the rest of people who were looking for a romance fic. **

**Hint—this is not a romance fic. There will be no comforting or sharing of feelings. You want fluff, GO SOMEWHERE ELSE! (cough). On with the show. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned Twilight (shudders) euch that would not be a fun day. **

As the day wore on, Isabella found Jessica less and less amiable. Her eyes would dart to and fro as she exaggerated silent insults about the poor new girl she got stuck with. By lunch time, Jessica looked ready to dump her on the nearest unsuspecting victim, ditch the depressed new girl before her spot-light seeking came back to haunt her. Isabella found it rather amusing, in an odd sort of way.

Even before her mother's death, Isabella had never been popular. She had never had thousands of friends calling upon her night and day—she found herself on a different level of thought than normal humans. She would look at an object and see something quite different from the poor soul sitting next to her. Her mother had dubbed it shallow, trite, population of Phoenix. Isabella knew better; she knew that she may grow to be an old spinster with only Mr. Darcy to keep her company. A hopeless romantic, a misunderstood teenager—the implied clichés were insulting.

This was why Isabella would never outright say that no one understood her or that she hated her life. What was the point? Anyone with half a brain could figure that one out, as the good people of Forks Washington were beginning to discover. Isabella lived between truth and lies—the twilight zone of human society. While she never lied about herself, she also never told the truth.

Which was partly why it was hard to explain to Jessica, despite the lovely introduction with guilty smiles, that sitting at that table, even in the cafeteria, just might kill her. Her eyes had moved past the raised eyebrows and double-takes of the table on to a secluded round table in the corner of the room.

Isabella heard her lunch tray clamor to the floor; she felt her eyes widen in horror, her gaze locked on the table in the corner. The breath escaped her lungs as her mind worked its way back into the labyrinth of flesh-eating demons, memories just waiting to ensnare her in their ragged claws.

Isabella recognized them the moment she saw them stride through the door as if they were gods. You don't forget the face that kills you; Isabella hadn't forgotten their angelic features of sculpted marble—their chiseled features, sharp and angled in the artificial lighting, alien in their symmetry. Those faces had haunted her for a year's time; those pale angelic visages had been waiting in every nightmare, grinning maniacally at her helplessness. And there they were again, the same pale face repeated five times over different bodies. It portrayed a rather humorous effect, reminding her of the playgrounds where one could switch the heads and bodies of different images.

It didn't matter that their bodies were so different, that one was tall and broad, resembling the mightiest mountain, while another was frail and thin, her short stature accented by the mere proximity of the iron giant. Isabella didn't care what their bodies looked like; she knew their dead eyes at a glance.

She could smell the blood soaking their pale, glistening skin. She could see the lust in their coal black eyes; it was in the way they would stare at their uneaten food in distaste, irritation. Isabella could taste the blood they wished to shed; she could feel it sliding over her tongue as it trickled down their throats and dripped onto the cafeteria floor.

She had to leave, she had to disappear; she couldn't watch them. She was going to scream, she was going to die. She didn't want them to realize that she knew exactly what they were behind this human façade.

_Judex crederis esse venturus_

_Our Judge we believe shall come_

She met the demon's gaze from across the science room, daring him to act, daring him to move, to do something. She could see him clearly enough through the fog of her own fear and hatred. His face was surrounded by spiked bronze hair, seemingly gelled into position through hours of staring at his reflection. He looked young, as if he truly belonged in a high school; the lack of wrinkles dancing around his eyes hid his genuine age from the greater public.

Her heart raced in her chest—she knew he could hear it; she knew he could feel the vibrations through the tile floor, and she loathed it. She loathed the weakness she showed through her own beating heart. She could tell he heard it—even though his head was bent in indifference, she knew that he was hiding the cruel smile playing across his stone lips. The world around her was fading slowly, all the gossiping adolescents evaporating into the background, leaving her standing mute with fear before the vampire.

The science teacher looked her over once and grunted, immidiately categorizing her in the groups known as 'emo' or 'gothic'—other condensing words such as those. She could feel it in his academic eyes, the eyes of a bored-ambitionless-dreamer. She only distantly heard him grunt and point to the _only _open seat in the classroom. The demon taunted her, his white teeth flashing into a crooked grin.

Isabella had defied death once before. It seemed though, that the Angel of Death had quite the sense of irony. Isabella wondered if she would live long enough to appreciate it.

Her one hope of salvation were the students—there were too many witnesses. It would be a hassle for the vampire to suck her dry now when he could wait, when he could seduce her into a cozy broom closet, his voice low and seductive as he pulled the door shut. _Click_. She could feel his lips upon the exposed flesh of her neck; she could hear her muffled screams go unheard by those who passed by; she could see his cruel gaze locking her into place as he drained the life from her.

But the witnesses—there were too many of them. In here, in this crowded-noisy-classroom Isabella was safe, if only for a moment.

She walked slowly towards the table her eyes locked with the demon. Suddenly, his eyes widened in… horror? He straightened in his seat and covered his mouth; his chest stopped moving. Isabella halted her stride to the seat, her shoes hesitating over the next step as she calculated her chances of survival. The demon had stopped breathing. In his eyes she could see a loathing far greater than she deserved. What had changed in the two seconds it had taken her to get halfway across the classroom?

The science teacher became impatient. He coughed. "Well, Isabella, your seat is that way." He pointed towards the empty seat and the gagging demon. Reluctantly, Isabella resumed her slow process towards the chair, drawing out the affair as long as humanly possible.

She found herself standing beside the chair, staring down at the cowering vampire in disgust and hatred. She saw his dark stare and the loathing in his eyes—it was as if by merely walking in the room, she had betrayed his deepest trust. At least, she reasoned dimly, the feeling was mutual.

He scooted his chair as far away from her as possible without leaving the proximity of the table. Isabella followed his lead and did the same, although she remained tilted towards him, watching for any sign of impending violence.

As a result, she heard absolutely nothing of what occurred during the period. She figured in the long run that it wouldn't matter; she assumed that, due to advanced biology, she probably already had the information stored away into the recesses of her brain. She believed her survival to be more important than a single biology class.

As soon as the bell clanged throughout the halls, the demon was running out the doors towards the fresh blood that awaited him, Isabella was fairly sure that whatever had driven him off wouldn't do so for long. A silver crucifix was a rather trite weapon when she really thought about it.

_In te, Domine, speravi _

_In You, Lord, have I trusted_

Charlie couldn't find it within him to be surprised when he finds his daughter faking pneumonia at six in the morning. Isabella's brown eyes conveyed a seriousness that belonged in his job, not in his seventeen year old daughter. The way she acted—it was almost as if skipping school were a life or death situation.

The glass thermometer stuck out of her mouth in a parody of the home-illness situation; her pale skin gleamed under the light bulb, highlighting the sweat dripping down her face. Isabella had her own reasons for acting the way she did. Charlie accepted that, but he did not have time or patience to play the role of the gullible father.

"You are going to school Isabella and that is final." He didn't even bother to call her Bella anymore; there didn't seem any point.

"When you see my sick, wasted body on the evening news, I hope you'll feel some remorse in your middle-aged heart." Her cold, penetrating voice did not change Charlie's decision to kick her out of the house. In fact, it probably only strengthened his resolve. The girl needed some fresh air; the girl needed to give him some peace.

"Charlie, you are a horrible father and I will never forgive you for this. Now that you fully understand the fact that you have sent me to my death, it will haunt you for the rest of your miserable existence." She turned suddenly without another word, without even brushing her hair or eating breakfast, into the army tank of a truck he had bought for her.

It was an action, a gift, that was beginning to frighten him—Lord knows what damage Isabella could cause with the red monster that growled whenever she started its engine. Her words, however, didn't bother him; most likely, she was just attempting to miss some math test she hadn't had the time to study for.

_Non confundar in aeternum _

_Let me not be damned for eternity_

Isabella hated the demon; she loathed him with the same passion he possessed. He frightened her; he puzzled her; she didn't know from which corner he would strike. Would he strike from behind? Would he rise from the shadows and reach out the instant she wasn't looking? He did seem the type, with his lowered glare and his clenched fists—he would savor the look of horror on her face.

But perhaps he would defy all logic and close in when she most expected it, when her fear reached its pinnacle, just so he could toy with her up till that point—just so he could watch her head swivel as she scanned the hallways and classrooms, all the while sitting at that damn lab table, grinning at her folly.

If the demon was planning revenge, Isabella would surely die. She was human; she was clumsy. She was no match for the vampire. In his eyes, she had seen the loathing that consumed him, the hatred ready to spring to life and ignite, searing her skin and bones with insufferable agony. His actions were contradictory; his motives were hidden; and his thoughts were clear as the rain that fell from the sky. He detested her just as much as she abhorred him—he longed to kill her just as much as she longed to kill him.

Even in her dark, silent room she felt his malicious thoughts swarming like hornets stinging her ivory skin. Her mind buzzed with them; they clouded her vision as she tried to make out the truth among them. She couldn't tell which way to turn, which way to run, when the air was so thick with paranoia.

And as she looked out her window towards the swaying trees outside, she thought of how each branch looked as if they were silently waving goodbye. Isabella didn't believe in omens, just as she hadn't believed in gods or demons, but that night, she was willing to put aside her pride… if only for a moment.

She turned to gaze at her pile of annotated books, each one opened haphazardly and then dropped into the heap. Crucifixes, God, running water, holy water, silver—those were her limited weapons. But in truth, what did she know about vampires other than what she had read from books? Each one varied in descriptions and methods of destruction. The tales were all taken from different lore, but each monster was only similar in one aspect: they all drank the blood of men, sometimes killing them, sometimes leaving them brainless zombies. The effect was the same; whether beautiful or hideous, they enjoyed feasting on humans.

She knew only what she had seen, and that had not been much. They were beautiful, their physical form attracting their prey the way a Venus flytrap attracts theirs. They were pale, like the blankets of snow that covers the mountains. They were stronger than any human she had ever seen, capable of ripping the limbs off of a grown man with scant effort. Graceful and elegant, they had never seemed anything but human to Isabella.

Vampire was the term Isabella had decided upon after months of research in Phoenix's public libraries. It explained the sucking of blood and the mutilation of their victims, if not their glorious features. It seemed the only word that fit. What else was she supposed to call them? Gods, demons, angels, cannibals?

Crucifixes, garlic, holy water, prayers—they were the weapons of wishful thinking, the weapons of the belief that no creature, however inhuman, was immortal. It was olden lore that would save her should they come again, the weapons claimed.

Useless, futile, pointless wishful thinking.

Her dark eyes turned back towards the night sky, watching as each star brilliantly shone, sparkling in the dimness. And somewhere among the trees, in the deepest of shadows, the vampire seethed, planning his revenge for an action that had yet to take place.

Or at least, that was how Isabella saw it.

_Salvum fac populum tuum _

_Save Your people_

She felt his absence just as much as she had felt his cobalt gaze. His presence was just as easily felt as when he was sitting right next to her, his eyes locked with hers in cold fury. In some ways, she had been expecting to die when she entered that crowded classroom. Eyes downcast, she reassured herself that she would be much safer among crowds of students than hiding in an empty bathroom stall.

The more witnesses between her and the vampire, the better. He couldn't possibly be stupid enough to reveal his true face to the greater human population; he must realize what that would entail.

Still, the empty chair chilled her more than any hate-filled gaze could have. Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer. Isabella would much rather be chummy with the demon, where she could keep an eye on him, than have him watching her panicked movements from the shadows. Yes, there were other humans in the room, but how long could they protect her for? How long until she found herself alone for one single instant?

Sitting at her empty lab table, Isabella's eyes locked on the head of the bored teenage student in front of her, her mind racing far beyond Biology and the division of cells. Her hands folded neatly on the table as she observed her internal breakdown.

She was a sitting duck, exposed and vulnerable, waiting for the killing blow to fall upon her, no matter how her logic reassured her otherwise. All day, she was tormented by the thought that he waited in every corner, that he lingered in the back of her car, waiting for the moment for her to return and claim his prey.

Isabella walked home. Despite the staring of the various students, she grabbed her supplies and headed out into the pouring rain, passing by her truck without a second thought. She would rather walk two miles in the pouring rain than face her doom.

_Because I could not stop for Death _

_He kindly stopped for me _

Though Isabella had passed his merciless gaze once before, he had never forgotten her face, as she had never forgotten his. Death would not forgive her for passing by a second time.

Running through the constant downpour, she pictured how he would find her, how, smiling sweetly, he would tear her apart and leave her to rot in an unmarked grave, his heartless gaze trapping her in place as he reminded her that everyone's time came to an end. He came in the guise of an angel, golden eyes glowing, a serene smile pasted across his pale face.

Her feet pounded against the pavement as she quickened her pace, the adrenaline rushing through her body, a flood of fear. Her breath haggard as she continually gasped for air, she felt his onyx eyes locked on her back, laughing as he watched the water splash beneath her feet, laughing as she fell to the pavement, her knees scraped and bleeding, maliciously grinning as she fell past the pavement into his stone cold arms.

The rain fell in sheets, drenching her in waves as it fell to the earth, her shallow breathing calmed as the black pavement remained steady beneath her. That dark cement would not turn into the marble angel who haunted her nightmares.

In her nightmares it was always raining, as if the sky had cracked in two and the flood it held back was unleashed upon the unsuspecting world. It was the soundtrack to her inescapable dreams, the soft patter of drops against the pavement.

**Author's note: As you can tell, this is very AU, as Bella isn't mooning over Edward and is instead freaking out. XD**

**Note Lyrics were stolen from Sanctuary! Once again from Hunchback of Notredame**

**Reviews would be dandy.**


	3. Strength and Honor

**Author's note: Chapter two, here we come. Congrats to all of you who have continued to read and not be traumatized—I give you props. You have my respect and thanks. Also, a thank you is in store for my amazing beta who just about killed me for having a Twilight bunny. **

**P.S. As I needed more sections in this chapter, I've decided it's time to introduce my OC. Yes, there are OC's in this—I ALREADY WARNED YOU! So have fun with that. Right now it's vague mentions, though. So no biggie. **

**Rest of the transition lyrics stolen from Sanctuary! (Hunchback of Notre Dame)**

**Disclaimer: Thank God I don't own Twilight. (shudders)**

What is a nightmare for those who cannot sleep? What is the cold terror one feels on the verge of waking when they no longer possess the ability to dream? Is it prophecy, foreshadowing?

Though their eyes may no longer be human, there is a great chance they can feel pain. Even though their skin will not break under the steel of a knife, they still feel the blade against their skin. When they look into their reflection, can they recognize the demon that stares through the glass?

The night is their dark ally, shielding them from the blinding rays of the cruel sun. Artemis, goddess of the night and the hunt, the patron of their endeavors. And yet even as they fall into step behind their startled pray, they might remember the blurred passions of being human—if only for a moment.

Their crimson eyes glow with lust of blood, even while their mind reels in nostalgia—the bizarre comings and goings of homesickness often associated with death. It passes within moments, leaving the hunters vaguely unsatisfied… though they have no idea what they are missing.

The world bows its dark head before them, tears of blood streaming down its withered face. They feel no pity as they watch its impoverished children starve in the streets; they feel no remorse when they steal their life to extend their own. And yet, the empathy could very well kill them—if only they would let it.

If only they could feel it.

_Judex crederis_

_In our Judge we believe_

Her eyes used to be the color of chocolate—a warm milk chocolate, rich and sweet and accompanied by the feeling of euphoria. When she laughed, it sounded as if chimes were blowing in a summer breeze.

But that was a long time ago, and many things had changed since then.

Though her eyes still resembled some of their former glory, they now reeked of the bitterness that consumed her thoughts. There was no more euphoria to be found within her expression. She couldn't remember laughter; she couldn't remember smiles, or joy. She was the apathetic ghost of Bella Swan, adopting her name only out of familiarity.

Even as her prophesized death approached, she felt only tendrils of panic; for she had been dead far before the black eyed boy ever neared her. Death had been her constant companion long before the vampire ever laid his dark eyes upon her.

For five days she awaited the medium of her death, the blood thirsty monster that she was positive would consume her. After five days she grew tired of waiting, her body drooping from exhaustion, her eyes drifting closed for longer and longer periods of time. Her stamina began to wane as she felt her will to live run dry.

When by the fourth day he had not returned, she wondered if he had committed suicide, and if suicide were even possible for immortal beings. Alone at her science table, she considered the fact that she may have been wrong—he might have been human. A vampire would have come back for her; a vampire would have made sure to destroy her; a vampire would never leave her waiting.

Waiting, remaining, praying, dying. Within the tension she saw her angel of death, the guardian of her own fragile soul. His eyes sparkled even as he smiled and told her to _wait_.

Good things come to those who wait.

But that face—she had known that face for so long; she could never forget his angelic face. She could never forget the face of a monster.

It was not until the fifth day that her fears were realized, and she found him sitting in his usual corner. His hair dripping from the recent snowball fight, his face alight with an all too human joy—such an expression on a demon's face made her want to shudder. Suddenly he turned, his golden eyes shifting to meet hers in an intrigued and somewhat frustrated stare.

Somewhere in the past, Bella was laying across a grassy lawn, her eyes skimming the pages of Pride and Prejudice. Even as Isabella felt her hands shake and her eyes widen, she saw her younger self, so innocent so naïve. Even in her misery, Isabella did not want to confront death once again.

The clock had stopped its ticking. Its minute hand resting firmly upon midnight. Her eleventh hour was up. Her angel smiled his patient smile.

She had been right; the angel of death had not deserted her like she feared.

_Libera me Domine_

_Free me, Lord_

His footsteps resounded slowly, echoing across the halls of her mind, building in volume as he neared. Almost as if he had been practicing the monotonous clicks of his heels, she immediately found her self thinking of the peals of church bells. She did not look up to see him, preferring instead to keep her dark eyes locked on her notebook.

If she didn't look up then, she could pretend that he wasn't there—that he wouldn't kill her, that he wouldn't seduce her with a voice low like velvet. Her pencil strayed to a blank piece of paper and she began to draw—softly at first, and then harder. Jagged lines began to form along the page until a face appeared amid the darkness; and it was his face staring back at her through the lined college ruled notebook. She quickly slammed it shut, her heart rate accelerating once more.

"Isabella, right?" His voice was higher than she expected, childlike in its inflection and tone. Hardly the voice of a vampire—but then, it was hardly the face of demon, as well.

She didn't answer at first. How could she answer that? How could she possibly answer to his naïve voice and expect to live? She would not force herself to pretend he was human, just to appease him. She would not degrade herself to that level.

"Or is it Bella?" He sounded nervous, unsure, his confidence beginning to crack under the pressure of the silence.

Good. She wanted him to crack under the silence; she would not be one of his drained corpses. She had more dignity than that. But even in the silence her own resolve faltered, and she felt that she at least had a right to have her question answered.

"Does this charade ever grow dull, demon? This act of pretending to be human—you're barely trying right now, acting as if it were all too easy." She never turned to look at him, keeping her voice low and dark. "It should never be this easy for you to get away with what you've done."

The silence between them grew, she wondered if he had stopped breathing or if he was going to kill her now.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Isabella Swan, but whatever you're trying to say is no doubt the product of insanity."

Isabella could feel the charming smile plastered to his face even if she did not see it; she did not need to see it. His voice was also amiable, but it could not cover the panic that must have been coursing through his system. She did have some power over him after all.

"You aren't as clever as you think you think you might have been. That's obvious enough. You must think you're brilliant, demon—I can tell without even looking at you. Did you really think I would be stupid enough to fall for that pathetic excuse?" She smiled and turned to look at him, waiting to see the angel of death from her nightmares, the dark haired figure who would whisper _bravo_.

"You're lying," he whispered, his golden eyes growing wide with fear. Had he been a human, she would have seen cold sweat dripping down his face.

She remembered the crimson demons dancing through the remains of life and death like petals upon the wind, their eyes luminous and radiant as they tore through the torrent of pleas for mercy and cries for help. Even as blood soaked their clothing and dripped down their marble skin, they had been deceptively beautiful—dangerous and lethal, they had glowed with inhuman perfection. They had the aura of gods of war and death; there had been no mistaking what they were.

But the golden-eyed demon, with his spiked bronze hair and his innocent features, could pass as human if need be. While danger still radiated from him, it did so in a less potent fashion—it could be ignored if one didn't want to see it. His expression of masked horror was astonishingly human in its inconsistent fabrication; a vampire would feel no reason to lie about what it was. A vampire would not prey upon children in such a fashion.

"Do I look like a liar to you, demon?" she asked him slowly, another smile breaking across her face as she stared at him and realized that he was not her death and that she was going to live even after she left the safety of his dungeon.

Daniel cast among the lions for his faith would walk amongst men again; he shall survive the beasts' golden eyes and sharp fangs to see once more the light of day.

Sitting across from her was no god of death.

"They won't believe you. No matter what you tell them, they won't believe you," he muttered, shaking his head, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to sound vengeful. The fear shook all doubts Isabella may have had.

Her angel was letting her walk free today—perhaps with a warning, perhaps with a blessing. A relieved smile made its way across her lips as she stared down at her inhuman rival.

"Of course they won't, but that doesn't change much, does it? You can't kill me—you can't kill anyone. You are weak. I'm not surprised you hide among humans; whatever enemies you might have would have to try really hard to not be able to kill you. These witnesses aren't my protection; they're yours." The epiphany struck a chord within her and she felt the shadows of her nightmares grow around her, their dark tendrils reaching out to the fraud sitting before her. He was not of her nightmares; he could not harm her. He was nothing but a sniveling child wielding powers he knew nothing of.

She was safe.

_Libera me Domine de morte aeterna _

_Free me, Lord, from everlasting death_

"I see death and ashes, shadows and dust. Did you really have to take my hand, oh my master, to realize that I have not the will to lie—that I have no more will than any of your other senseless puppets who cannot see their strings? I can see the strings and I resent them, but of course, you already knew that—you bastard. You already knew." The vampire was smiling even as he bowed before his king, his face breaking under the pressure of insanity. Kneeling on the floor and shaking with stifled laughter, his dark cloak was illuminated within the candle light.

"We are nothing but your toys, your dolls, your collection of undead playthings. I applaud you, my master, for even as I know this I worship you as we all do; I hate and love you as I hate and love myself. You truly are a master—but what would one expect after ruling for millennia?" He continued to speak without pause as his master's hand fell down once more, touching his face briefly before retreating back to its owner, relaying all the information it held.

"You think we are going to die? You think we are going to burn within our own avarice and bloodlust? My dear servant, you are eccentric at the best of times, pessimistic at the worst." Seated upon his throne, the dark god laughed, his childish voice raised in delight as his servant looked up and smiled darkly with his thoughts written clearly across his carved face.

"Perhaps. Would it be pessimistic of me to wish for you to burn in Hell my master? I don't think so; in fact, I'd say I'm rather the optimist. Times are changing; humans are not so naïve as they used to be. We stand on the edge of oblivion—another extermination is upon us and I'm not so sure you can survive this one, Aro." His head lifted and he began to stand, a smile spreading across his uplifted face, his dark eyes, closed no doubt imagining the dark abyss he longed for.

The demon king shook his head, pouting as he stared down at his servant in something resembling pity. "You always were one to struggle against authority, but I think you should know, Daedelus, that you are free to leave at any time."

An unspoken wave of hatred swept between them, master and servant. In the darkness it seemed as if the two figures were lit not by candles but by rage and loathing.

"Of course, master. I believe I understand that fact better than any other creature that walks this earth." He bowed swiftly and turned, making his way to exit the highly furnished room, his dark cape swirling behind him like the shadow of the sun.

_In die illa tremenda _

_On that terrible day_

"Eric, tell me everything you know about the pale students who sit in the corner of the cafeteria. Seeing as you've gone out of your way to talk to me before, I considered it best to approach you first rather than go to more severe steps." Isabella Swan sat down beside Eric at the near-empty lunch table. She sounded exhausted and rather bored. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and while that was nothing new, they seemed to be a tad darker than a week ago. Not that he had been looking.

Eric blinked twice and looked around to make sure that she was actually talking to him. Of course, nobody but the few other members of the social pariahs sat anywhere close to him, making it rather unlikely that she was addressing anyone else. But like the idiot he was, he opened his mouth and asked, "Are you talking to me?"

She nodded gravely, her dark brown eyes remaining unnervingly locked with his own, practically boring into his skull. Once more, Eric could not help but notice the silver crucifix dangling in front of her plain black turtle neck sweater. Before he met Isabella, he had never seen so much black in his life.

"It was either that or confront Jessica, and I have a feeling my welcome there has waned." Her grim smile matched the wry expression in her dead voice. "You were the better of those two options; forgive me, Eric, if it hurts your social status to be seen with the religious fanatic."

There was a moment where Eric wasn't sure if she was joking or not—then he saw the corners of her lips twitch and he felt himself chuckle nervously. Sweat rolled down his face as he found himself thinking of the various monsters he had seen in movies and books that wore the visage of a human.

"No, no, it's fine, Isabella. Really, it's cool." Cool, why cool? He had a better vocabulary than that, and here he came off babbling like the morons he hated. "Just, er, it's been a while since you've talked…."

"Five school days and three hours of your time—not an exceedingly long time. You must be impatient. Did you want to tell me something, Eric?"

Eric shook his head frantically, praying his voice wouldn't crack when he spoke and noticing, rather haplessly, the amused look playing across Isabella's face. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat and answered, "Ah, not… really. What did you say earlier? Something about pale cafeterias?"

"Pale students in the corner of the cafeteria. Who are they; where did they come from; why did they come here?" Not once had she looked away from his face. Still she stared into his eyes with an iron will that made his blood run cold.

"You mean the Cullens?" he finally managed to stutter, attempting to maintain her gaze and failing miserably when he had to look away, faking a glance at the family of five.

"Why not? So tell me, Eric, what do you know about them?" Her voice was lowered—not quite a whisper, but anyone who wasn't paying attention wouldn't have heard a word she said. Not that she looked as if she minded if they did; of all the people he had ever met, Isabella had the most immunity to gossip and social failings.

She probably hadn't even noticed how she had gone from most to least popular within the course of one school day. If the black clothing hadn't been enough to push her out of all social circles, her rather lackluster attitude was certainly the kicker. In fact, as Eric turned to stare at his own friends, they looked rather dubiously at Isabella. If it weren't for the fact that she was almost frighteningly good-looking they would have left Eric's side quite a while ago.

"Er, they moved from Alaska about two years ago from around Denali, I think…." He smiled and shrugged, waiting to be released from interrogation.

Isabella sighed. looking down at the table with a thoughtful expression. "North—predictable, if a little stupid; they really aren't that bright, are they? Not that you can't guess from the situation, anyways."

As usual, Eric wasn't sure what the hell Isabella was talking about; it was as if she were making a joke that only she could understand. Nonconformist was nothing next to Isabella—she didn't have to try in order not to belong. It just came naturally.

"Um, well the five of them are adopted. The blondes, Jasper and Rosalie, are the Hale twins; Alice, Edward, and Emmett are the Cullens. I'm pretty sure Jasper and Rosalie are the only ones who are actually related, as you can probably tell by the differences…." Even Jasper and Rosalie were stretching it, though, as Eric thought about it; true, both had blonde hair, but if he had to take a guess, he'd say they were from completely different families. It wasn't even the same shade of blonde.

"They didn't change the names—my God, they are morons. No one within this century would be caught dead with a name like Jasper or Rosalie." Isabella's deadpan caused Eric to break out into hysterical chortling; the expression on her face was just so wry and sarcastic that he couldn't help breaking out into mad giggles.

"I think your popularity was just terminated, Eric. Your insensible round of laughter did not help your climb up the popularity ladder. But do go on; I'm interested, and it seems the demon boy himself is rather interested, too. Don't look, it will only encourage him."

Eric turned to see Edward staring straight at him with an expression that belonged in a horror film, his mouth was hanging wide open as his eyes bulged with shock. Before today, Eric had never believed that such a being could ever be ineloquent, but here was proof.

"Their dad Carlisle works at the hospital; he's really good looking… thirty or something. Also blonde, and his wife Esme. In fact, all of them could be models—it's actually somewhat frightening. They are like the poster family of Forks; hell, they even go backpacking every other weekend or so…"

"Anything special about these backpacking trips? Any pattern among the dates? Any victims of homicide appearing shortly afterwards?"

Eric scratched his head wondering if Isabella was joking about the 'victims of homicide'. It was very hard to tell.

"Um, it's usually sunny when they go; nice weather, not that we get much here in the Pacific Northwest. Not any murder victims I've heard of, although they do go hiking during hunting season…. That's a little weird…. Uh, that's about all I know about them. Are you planning to kill them in their sleep or something?" asked Eric, eyeing Isabella's frustrated expression dubiously.

"Dracula was destroyed by holy wafers, so many other demons can be destroyed by the wrath of God. I don't think it will come to that, though; from what I have seen of them, I do not believe they have the mettle to kill a human. I'll tolerate them for the moment, but if I ever catch one of their victims, they'll have hell to pay." She stood slowly, sighing as she did so. "Thank you, Eric—it helps."

"Too bad about the snow, eh, Isabella?" asked Eric jokingly, watching as she began walking despite his question.

"Eric, I think you should know. If there is one thing I hate more than rain, it's that damn powdery substance you refer to as 'snow'." She caught his eye and nodded before stepping out of the cafeteria and into the light drizzle that had only just began.

**Author's note: Isabella, as you can tell is not at all like Meyer's Bella. She will not have the same viewpoints or personality because her life has been so dramatically changed prior to meeting Edward. As a result, her view of him is incredibly altered. **

**Review and rant me out if you disagree—I welcome your challenge, foolish mortal. Defend your prince of darkness and I'll defend mine.**


	4. A Mask of Fools

**Author's note: Thank you to readers and reviewers and my beta—isn't it amazing how fun reading depressing stories is? **

**Beta's Note: The wait is entirely my fault. -/end lazy proofreader-**

**We are still on Sanctuary! transition lyrics. That is one long score, ladies and gentlemen. Let's see if you get through it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight; if I did, it would have been FAR more depressing.**

_A Mask of Fools_

Charlie woke up around four in the morning. At first, he wasn't quite sure why—that is, until he heard the clamor coming from outside. Sighing as he lifted his middle-aged body off the bed, he staggered towards the window where he watched his only daughter crouched in the snow, kicking the tires of her colossal truck and giving off curse words in rapid fire.

That is, he assumed they were curse words, as he couldn't recognize half of them, she was jabbering so fast. Charlie blinked blearily wondering if his daughter had attempted to blow up her car in an attempt to avoid school. But eventually, his brain muddled along and managed to put two and two together, leaving him to sigh again and lumber his way down the stairs and out the door.

"Goddamn metal contraptions made impossible to work simply for the amusement of the manufacturers! Laughing maniacally, even as their ill-fated victims struggle to untangle the web of linking silver chains. Thrashing violently against the symbolism of their own shackles!" Isabella kicked the red beast once more before muttering, incoherently, more death threats to the 'manufacturers' and 'overlords'.

Charlie wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know, but decided it would be best if he could get back to the house before his toes froze in his slippers. He coughed into his hand, causing his daughter to jump and whip around to look him in the face. "You're putting them on wrong," he said awkwardly.

She looked down at the chains in her hands, then back at Charlie before giving a short nod. "I assumed that was the case."

Charlie rubbed the back of his head; his eyes drifted down towards Isabella's bare feet poking out of the bottom of her pajama bottoms. He blinked, wondering if he missed the slippers somewhere.

"Bells, where did your shoes go?" he asked, slightly puzzled by this development. Maybe he was dreaming after all, although he didn't remember his dreams ever being this cold.

"I did not think that it would take such a hefty amount of time." She wiggled her toes as she spoke, looking down at them as if to make sure they were still attached.

"Right, well, go back inside and I'll get your… car ready…."

She stared at him with a confused frown. "Are you sure, Charlie? I'm fairly certain that I could figure the mechanics out eventually."

Charlie motioned for her to go while contenting himself to attaching chains to her tires for the rest of the morning. If it hadn't been Isabella, he would have been laughing; unfortunately, his daughter was not something people laughed at.

_Quando caeli movendi sunt_

_When the heavens shall be moved_

Wasn't it ironic? Wasn't it ironic, the way death chose to visit her, in the guise of a blood-thirsty angel? Waltzing with his victim, gloved hands inching up her spine, his lips at her throat, whispering words of seduction… his dark eyes locked on hers as the steps became more complicated and she began to lose her balance, began to tumble out of his arms and fall into the abyss….

But then, that was just a game. It was a game between Isabella and the Angel of Death, with the pieces scattered across the course of her lifetime. She had always thought the irony was stored in the face he used to pursue her, how he always seemed to wear a single beautiful face, unchanging and inhuman as the desert she loved—beautiful in its immortality.

To say she was surprised to learn that she wasn't going to die at the hands of a monster was a slight understatement. She was horrified. It was as if everything she had ever believed in had been thrown up into her face for the second time in her life. Everything disappeared within one fragile moment and she saw the Angel of Death laughing maniacally, every chuckle telling her just how much he could take away from her, and how easy it was for her to lose.

Death truly was a clever bastard. Isabella never would have guessed that she would have been killed by a speeding pick-up truck. Of course, no one really guesses how they die, but Isabella was certain she had a good estimate of what it would look like. Squashed to death in a parking lot wasn't quite what she had in mind.

One moment, she was getting out of her monster truck, making to move away from the car before the bell could ring, when low and behold—speeding towards her was Tyler's beater of a pickup truck. Panicking really wouldn't do much, as she was doomed to be a splatter on the windshield of life within mere seconds; she didn't really see the point of throwing a fuss.

Her eyes strayed past the truck, which was sliding dangerously out of control on the ice, and Tyler, who was sweating profusely as he attempted to steer the vehicle so as not to commit accidental homicide. This earned a raised eyebrow from Isabella as she admired his flailing against the fates; she just didn't have the energy to raise such a hissy fit against the inevitable.

The truck seemed to be taking an awfully long time to reach her—she assumed it was the adrenaline coursing through her system, but maybe Death had decided to mess with the time space continuum just for her. This lapse in time allowed her eyes to find the Cullen boy. His golden eyes were wide with shock… terror? As if it were him who the car was speeding towards at dangerous speeds.

Stuck on that thought, Isabella's attention turned back to her soon-to-be-doom. Her impatience rose with each delayed second; she had to just stand there like a sitting duck.

Eyes back on the demon she raised a hand and half saluted before closing her eyes and waiting for the impact. That came from the completely wrong direction.

Yet again Death managed to surprise her at the last minute, changing the tempo of their waltz before she could get a chance to catch up. Someday she would have to tell him that it got old after the first time.

Her head hit the pavement. Her eyes traveled upwards to see the demon, of all people, keeping the hell-sent pickup truck at bay with only his bare arms, leaving dents within the sides of both her and his vehicle.

That was when the fight or flight response kicked in—she was back, back in a closet, watching creatures that wore human faces perform impossible feats of strength and cruelty. She heard the ripping of limbs even as the demon turned his eyes to look at her, incredulous even as he did, blinking abundantly as if to wipe away the fact that she were still living—that she had been spared yet again, that they had trapped her in another, tighter closet. That she had been left alone in the dark, among the smell of fabric softener and blood, too afraid to sob, to scream, her breath barely leaving her throat. Silent.

"Are you alright, Isabella?" he asked, his voice shaking. A terrible actor, she thought, even as her mind locked itself away, a horrible, atrocious actor.

She said nothing, scooting back until she hit the door of her own deformed truck. He could see her; he could see straight through her; he could see through walls and doors—his golden eyes pierced through her sanctuary, her safe haven of coats and shoes. Terror is not when you scream, or shout; it is when the world goes silent, when the air is too afraid to whisper its warnings and leaves you all alone, cowering in the dark.

"Isabella?" he repeated, his pale hands, hands of death reaching towards her. Lying through his pointed teeth—a terrible liar, she thinks again. He only lied to convince himself; he couldn't see the left hand of God sitting beside him, the angel of death waiting patiently for the final strike.

Dimly, she noted the crowd surrounding both her and Tyler's automobiles, and the paramedics lifting a bleeding Tyler into the ambulance. The other demons stared upon him disapprovingly, their gold eyes dark with anger and disapproval. Her main focus, though, was on the shaking demon beside her; the cogs in her mind moved past the closet and death and on towards his motives. What was he thinking? Did he think this would seduce her, cause her to fall on her knees in praise? He truly was a fool.

Or perhaps the act itself was a distraction, causing her to linger far too long on his motives, blinding her from the direction of the killing blow. He comes to the back then strikes from the side. If so, then he was very clever indeed—far more clever than she had initially expected from the few glimpses of his personality within science class.

So what was he, genius or idiot? God of War or Pope of Fools? Her cold, wry smile returned as she stared once more into his golden eyes, the color of the honey her mother would have at the breakfast table. Oh yes, he could be very clever—if only he knew how.

_caeli et terra _

_the heavens and earth_

"I'm so sorry, I lost control—I hit the ice too fast. I'm so sorry…." The bandaged Tyler managed to moan out these words at a surprisingly consistent rate for a man who had recently crashed into his own airbag. Of course, none of the wounds looked particularly serious—bleeding, yes; a couple of gashes, maybe, but at least his limbs were still attached to his torso.

"Yes, well I'm still living, aren't I?" said Isabella rather irately, as she was getting somewhat bored of the constant attempts of contrition from the bandaged adolescent. If she had wanted to hold a confessional, she would have gone to a Catholic church.

"I was coming straight for you—I thought I was going to smash you into a pulp." Tyler took a staggering breath, as if it were hurting him to talk so long without pause. Isabella merely stared straight forward, too annoyed to give the mandated eye roll.

"Yes, Tyler, I believed that as well." If only she were alone, then perhaps she'd have the chance she needed to think, to plan her next move in the never ending chess game between her and death. She was running out of pawns to sacrifice.

"How… how did you get out of the way in time? One moment you were there, the next you were gone," Tyler stuttered, still breathing irregularly from his forced repentant speech. Really, how dumb were these small-town folk? Did they truly have no idea what lived within their towns? Perhaps they were fooling themselves into thinking the demons were innocent, or perhaps they were morons. She wasn't so sure it made much of a difference.

"The Cullen boy runs very fast; I'm surprised you didn't see him sprinting across the parking lot." She hadn't, but then again, Isabella hadn't exactly expected a blood-thirsty demon to spare her life by breaking the laws of physics. Someone, on the other hand, must have been paying enough attention to see 'Run Demon, Run'.

"Huh, I didn't see him there…. Lucky that he managed to get you out of the way in time, though," Tyler mused slowly, stopping the rant of 'I'm sorry' for a grand total of thirty seconds. Lucky, of course, wasn't exactly the word Isabella had intended—unfeasible perhaps?

"Yes, well, it's not important." If he were too stupid to pick up on hints as blatant as the ones she had handed him, then he wasn't going to grasp anything else anytime soon. Unfortunately, as soon as she uttered this, Tyler's chant of 'I'm so sorry, Isabella,' started up once more. If only there were something large enough to bash his head in with.

She closed her eyes against the unnatural white walls, the blood dripping from I.V. bags, and the steady pulse of the heart monitors. The fear was not so far away, the mind-wrenching insanity not so far from taking over—she could still smell the sanitizer that seemed to haunt these places. Sometimes, she felt as if she were in two places at once; Forks blended into Phoenix with the ease that comes to all waking nightmares.

The hospital had been larger there; it had been bigger, better staffed. Dehydration was their excuse for strapping her to a bed, their excuse for why she survived when her mother and father had been torn to pieces. The police, the hospital, the government all had to justify her survival. They had to rationalize her lack of injuries, the screaming when she woke with sweat on her brow in the still white room, the constant panicked beating of her heart. If there were such a thing as Hell on Earth, then hospitals would not be too far off—the walls of Hell were white and unsympathetic. Its staff blended into one faceless nurse adjusting the heart monitor, pretending to understand what pain felt like.

Tyler did not understand what pain felt like, what contrition felt like; he felt, perhaps, only a distant understanding of these things. Empathy is a cruel word, which likes to pretend it can understand what is incomprehensible.

How can one tell a blind man what red looks like? How can one tell a deaf man what screaming sounds like? How can one tell a human what a god looks like?

She didn't know how to explain such things, and she had stopped trying long before she saw the endless forests of the northwest. Breathing out a sigh, she lifted the pillow from behind her head, ignoring the neck brace digging into her skin, and proceeded to whack the pillow repeatedly against her head. What were a few brain cells, anyway—there went Milton, shortly followed by Shakespeare…. She wondered what the probability was that she would manage to commit suicide by destroying brain cells. Not very likely, but it was better than listening to Tyler's sob story.

"What is she doing?" The musical voice sounded from in front of her, somewhat amused and far less afraid for his life than he had been just a half an hour before. Feeling her eye twitch, she wondered how she might speed up the effects of her pillow bashing.

The anger rose. She dropped the pillow and ripped off the neck brace, tossing it in Tyler's general direction, hoping, as she did so, that her aim had somehow been improved in the course of her accident and would hit him in the face. Unfortunately, it hit the wall.

"I'm so sorry, Edward—did I nearly hit you, too?"

Isabella propped herself forward before the traitorous Tyler could utter another syllable, drew her right fist back to ear, and grabbed the color of the demon's nicely pressed shirt. She sneered up at him (and to her infinite horror, she was at least eight inches shorter than the Cullen demon).

"Thank you for saving my life, bloodthirsty demon." Her fist collided with the demon's jaw as soon as her calm sentence had been finished. A crack resounded throughout the room, and it wasn't the demon's face that had managed to break under pressure.

The demon blinked before taking a step back towards the door, his eyes once more wide as dinner plates. Isabella raised her rapidly-swelling hand curiously; surveying the damage to her now purple knuckles, she made a mental note not to physically attack a demon… at least, not with her bare hands.

"I'm sorry?" muttered the demon, seemingly just a confused as Tyler. Definitely a Pope of Fools. The Cullen monster was no Einstein.

"Yes, you're all sorry, aren't you? Oh, and I forgot to thank you for justifying my stay within the hospital; it would look kind of odd if I had no injuries at all, now wouldn't it?" She stared at him fixedly, wondering if even that would travel over his thick head. She was getting tired of apologies, especially the faked ones.

"Um, alright, then. You're welcome; it was my pleasure serving as your punching bag." He smiled, and Isabella could almost smell the invisible sweat rolling down his face. Who said demons had to be intimidating? This one certainly wasn't.

"Huh, uh, Edward? Am I missing something here?" asked a perhaps even more perplexed Tyler. Isabella wondered how long it would take for the doctors to fit her with a splint; despite the dull throbbing within in her hand, she was glad of her actions to test his strength. Hard as the rocks lodged in his brain, no doubt.

It must have been the lack of sunlight. The vitamin D must not only affect one's skin pigment. but their intelligence as well. If she survived to the age of thirty, she might have to look into that theory and move somewhere warm. She still believed the demons couldn't survive full-on sunlight—after all she hadn't seen the Cullen demon in bright sunshine yet. The crucifix didn't seem to be having any effect, or the silver; perhaps a rosary would be better.

"Don't force me to shove a stake through your heart, demon." Isabella glared across at the demon's collarbone, refusing to have to look up to see his disturbingly human face. She didn't need to see his eyes to know he was disconcerted.

"Uh, seriously, you guys, it's not cool being out of the loop here." Tyler's nervous laugh did nothing to ease the tension in the room, or make light of his apparent confusion.

"What are you talking about? Are you insane?" cried the vampire in despair, practically tearing his tawny hair from his scalp.

"Oh, we're all mad here," replied Isabella with a patented smirk, the kind that had caused her to lose more friends than she could count when she was back in Phoenix.

"You can't seriously be considering that; really, Isabella, does anything pass through your head?"

"Oh, I can and I will—don't tempt a desperate man. You should know that." Her right hand came to rest above her heart, brushing past her silver crucifix, causing Edward's eyes to fix on the glinting metal.

She looked up to see his golden eyes filled with wrath. Interesting, how he denied himself the pleasure of bashing her head in. If she was to win the game she must first test the waters, see her enemy's strength for herself, find his weakness and execute it.

The Angel of Death would not defeat her so easily.

_dum veneris judicare _

_when Thou shall come to judge the world_

Charlie found his daughter in the hospital room glaring at the respected Doctor Cullen and his son in clear distaste. Resting against her near-colorless lips was the wry smile he had seen so often in the wee hours of the morning. It was the smile that always spelled trouble for a tired father.

"Isabella, how you doing, kid? You still living?" He punched her in the shoulder in a friendly fashion, hoping to distract her from the stare-down with the town's one and only professional doctor. She turned slowly, her eyebrow raised in dull amusement, looking up at him while seeming to ask '_Are you serious?_'

"Obviously, Charlie, I still seem to be standing on my own two feet—unless I have somehow become a minion of the undead without my knowledge within the last five minutes… and what are the chances of that?" Again, her eyes strayed towards the doctor and his son, taking an almost sadistic pleasure in the way the boy seemed to tremble in his skin. They both seemed a little put off by her sense of humor, their eyes going wide at the last statement.

"Your girl has quite the imagination, Chief Swan," laughed the doctor, his pale hand ruffling his daughter's hair. She instantly pulled away from the touch, practically falling back onto Charlie with a hiss of fear.

"Oh, you have no idea," muttered Charlie under his breath before answering in a more conversational tone: "Yup. She gets it from her mother."

Renee had no imagination compared to Isabella—what was bad Mexican food compared to psychoanalyzing every prospect of the novel 1984? Isabella made Charlie and Renee look like glue-eating kindergarteners. Of course, the doctor didn't realize quite what Charlie had meant by this statement and started in on awkward-charming laughter anyway.

He almost felt his own eyebrows rise simultaneously with his daughter's. He looked down at her to see an exasperated expression of pure tedium, as she would call it. (In actuality, she had only used that expression for watching baseball, which she had dubbed 'masochistic torture'.) Her black eyes seemed to convey nothing but blank wall—so much for the open book analogy.

The boy coughed into his hand, drawing their attention back to him and his father. "I do believe there is nothing wrong with Isabella except for her hand, and we were just telling her that she would be free to leave at any time."

Charlie felt his eyes travel to his daughter's swelling hand then back to her face, hardly needing to even ask the obvious question.

"His face was harder than I had anticipated," she explained easily, flexing the pudgy fingers with a grimace of repressed pain. Leave it to Isabella to punch her rescuer right between the eyes. If it weren't his problem, he probably would have been laughing.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Cullen. She's a bit… different…."

"Assertive, Charlie, or melancholic," she interjected smoothly and without pause between his awkward sentence.

"Yes, well, anyways, I hope he isn't too hurt," finished Charlie before she could add anything more to the already awkward situation. If only she weren't his daughter; then he might be able to handle the conversation.

"No blood, no foul," remarked Edward Cullen coolly, his golden eyes flashing to Isabella, then back to him. The poor boy would not be getting off Isabella's blacklist anytime soon. Speaking of the girl, he couldn't help but notice she looked far more demonic than usual.

"Oh, there will be blood demon, there will be blood," stressed the rather frightening Isabella, her lips still painted with a cruel smile, the kind that had caused him to leave half-way through The Exorcist, and not return for another four hours.

"Isabella, death threats are illegal," growled the police chief through his teeth, wondering, not for the first time, if this is what all murder witnesses went through.

"I know, Charlie; don't worry. It wasn't a threat."

"Oh, good," sighed a relieved Charlie.

"It was a prophecy," she continued, her arms crossed and eyes closed, while still smirking in a very unladylike fashion. What had her mother done to her?

Both Cullens managed to look scared for their lives as their gazes locked on his daughter in wide-eyed terror. Good to see it wasn't just him who was frightened to death by his only daughter; he'd really have to start paying for her therapy. It looked about time to drag her out before she managed to commit homicide; that would be a field day of office work.

"Well, Isabella, looks like it's time to go," said Charlie rather loudly, glancing at his watch as if to check the time. He really didn't have to be anywhere, but he was fairly certain the Cullens didn't want to talk to her much longer.

"Yes, I was just thinking the same thing, Charlie." She smiled softly before lifting her hand into a half wave. "Sayonara, demon-boy. I'll be sure to see you in Hell."

Yes, her therapy was going to cost a fortune. But it was worth it.

_o, salutaris hostia _

_oh Saviour, saving victim_

"Forgive my asking, Isabella, but do you actually have any friends?" Eric looked over at the girl sitting across from him at the lunch table hardly touching the greasy pizza in front of her, her nose lodged in the middle of an abused copy of Interview With a Vampire.

She looked up from the print with a raised eyebrow before turning back to her novel. "Abraham Van Hellsing is my friend, even if he is middle aged and rather dull in conversation. Ralph is my friend, even if he is only ten or eleven years old. Alfred is my friend, as Batman is plainly overrated. I have my friends, Eric."

Eric wasn't surprised by this answer; at least, not as surprised as he was when he found Isabella sitting at his lunch table uninvited with a stack of encyclopedias sitting next to her, not to mention the various sketches of the Cullen family in dark pencil. That had been somewhat of a shock for Eric. Not that he minded—she was certainly interesting company, straight out of a fantasy novel. She was certainly no shallow, one-dimensional character that bored him; but he wondered if she played the hero or the villain.

"I mean friend out-of-print…. You know, like real people." Eric coughed into his arm and stared down at his rather abysmal hamburger, wondering what exact ingredients it contained. His friends spent their time at the lunch table playing Dungeons and Dragons and staring at Isabella in obvious worship—he wondered if any of them bothered eating at lunch anymore.

"What good are friends like those? They can betray you in rather trivial ways; they don't know the meaning of loyalty; they think they understand why you wear a rosary around your neck day after day. I don't want _real_ friends. I don't need them." She smiled, glancing over at the rapidly speaking Jessica and Lauren seated across the cafeteria, and then back to him.

Touché. She was good.

"Isabella, your faith in humankind is an inspiration to us all." Eric readjusted his glasses and snorted slightly, causing Isabella to once more lower her book and glare across at him. Well, it was her own damn fault sitting next to him.

"Tell that to Charlie; he'd be thrilled." Interview With a Vampire was raised once more and her face was hidden from her congregation's view, much to their disappointment. He had once looked on the inside of her book and seen nothing but a jumble of scribbles and sketches, musing whether the Catholic Church had anything to do with vampirism or if it was myth of an overoptimistic mankind.

"Hey, Isabella, is it true that you were once possessed by the Devil?" one of Eric's friends asked eagerly; of course, he was only trying to make small talk, but it had been a rather popular rumor of late. Eric had heard it at least five different times during the course of a day—and who knew. It might actually be true.

"Yes, he stole my soul and now I wander the world, a mindless starving ghoul tormented eternally by what I covet. Tell me something—have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?" She closed the book slowly, bending one of the dog-eared pages with indifference, her dark eyes practically glowing under her thick, curling hair. It was at these times that Eric noticed the rosary hanging about her neck, recently changed from her usual silver crucifix.

"So, you got it back, right? Your soul, I mean?" asked a different, slightly twitchy admirer. Eric was starting to wonder how long it would take for them to ditch him for a slightly saner table.

"Though my eyes can see I am blind; though my mind can think I am mad. I know a soul is no more than an illusion. There is nothing that makes us human—a pair of hands, a beating heart is all that is required to define us. I have no soul, just as you have no soul, and yet we are human. How could I get it back if I didn't have it in the first place?"

The table stared in synchronized confusion at Isabella, waiting dutifully for the bell to ring so that they might be freed from her terrifying gaze. Eric almost pitied Edward for having to put up with her fury for more than thirty minutes—but then again, there was definitely no one else quite like Isabella.

No one else had ever had the nerve to tell him the definition of a soul

.

_quae caeli pandis ostium _

_who opens the gate of heaven_

The bells in the square began their incessant tolling; the clock tower began its hourly ritual of clanging when the long hand struck twelve. And though the vampire kept no real track of time, he knew it was the day of worship—after all, what other day would call for the tolling of the church bells? He grinned as he caught the glint of noonday sun against his silver gauntlets; he wondered briefly what it would feel like if he were to betray them, shed the gloves and jump from the balcony, finally give in to that desire to end it. Of course, that was just an idle daydream, one that passed easily enough. Suicide was a passing fancy, and at the end of it he was left staring into the slowly dying sun.

After all, even stars had the right to die. Why shouldn't he have that honor? He wondered vaguely if Aro would be amused or incensed by his mutinous thoughts—whether he would smile or frown at the fact that he was more than willing to both die for him and mutilate him with a smile and a wave. Probably amused; Aro had a strange sense of humor, finding Caius' constant attempts to gain power more humorous than tedious. Probably how he had managed to stay in power so long—insanity helped when one was bent on ruling the world.

Sighing slowly, he leaned back from the balcony and turned to see Chelsea staring grimly back at him. Unlike him, she still kept the uniform on when off duty. The black cloak was not a symbol of bondage in her eyes, but a right she had earned long before he had made his presence known within the Volturi. How and why Chelsea had decided to seek Daedelus out was none of his concern; as the true binder of the Volturi, Chelsea made sure she did her job well, so as not to risk a coup.

Power was the last thing on the vampire's mind, and like always, it had never been a true motive for him. Ambition could be dangerous if left uncontrolled—Africa was one such example of heady ambitions left wild. They could only be left to themselves so long before they marched on Europe, and while all roads lead to Rome, there were a few offshoots that lead to Volterra. And yet, conceited and arrogant, the Volturi believed themselves immortal, and therefore didn't believe in rebellion. The victories in the Americas had gone to their heads, but the vampire was not complaining. An arrogant king was distracted, easy to topple off his throne.

"Chelsea, do you know where Demetri is?" asked Daedelus easily, his eyes shifting to the small female vampire, waiting for her to acknowledge his existence. Through her red eyes he could practically see the contempt she felt for everyone, the manipulation she wished to act upon—oh, sometimes he forgot how predictable his comrades were.

"Trouble in the South. The Americas are growing restless and territorial again. Jane, Demetri, and Alec left. I assumed you would know; after all, aren't you supposed be omniscient?" Chelsea didn't smile even as she spoke. Instead, she moved beside him to lean across the balcony, careful to hide her thoughts from her face. That almost made him smile. For all her wit, Chelsea still had no idea what the difference was between his and Aro's gift.

"Hmph, yes, I suppose. You know, I've heard a rumor of an oracle not so long ago; I was simply wondering if such beings still existed. It has been a long time since the golden age of Greece—perhaps the Pythia has returned after all." He smiled thoughtfully, his mind wandering to Delphi, which still remained barren of a sibyl.

"The Grecian power is long dead, Daedelus; even Rome has fallen to ruin. Stop dreaming. You have a job to worry about, not the bones of an empire." Her dark blonde hair fell onto her cape in an unruly braid, a few curls escaping its hold. And yet, she looked just as much a soldier of the Volturi as Demetri or Jane, crimson eyes bright and piercing. Daring opposition from the enemy, and relishing when it was given. He could almost feel the violence she longed for, hear their screams—oh, yes. Even as a puppetmaster, she still had her own strings.

"But what are we but the bones of an empire? If we do not worry about those, than what do we have left to distract us?"

The girl paused, straightened, then turned to walk back into the shelter of their headquarters. Her mouth tilted into a wry smile as she answered, "Sometimes, Daedelus, I wonder if even I have enough power left to contain you."

**Author's note: Well, that was needlessly long. Sorry about all the history in Daedelus' section. It was sort of crammed, but when you're dealing with vampires they have long memories. Meyer was bad about conveying that, which is why Edward is a moron. Yeah….. SO ANYWAY, REVIEW!**


	5. Twilight and Shadow

**Author's note: And here's where things change, I'm sure you must realize by now that I don't like Twilight and am going to change the plot up tremendously. I'm terribly sorry if you wanted the usual nothing to happen, because that's what the original book is. A plot full of holes. **

**Thank you to readers, reviewers. And to Sanctuary! Because we are still on those lyrics. By the by, this chapter was not beta'd as it has been pretty well a year since I've updated. If you notice any spelling/grammar errors please be so kind as to point them out. Hopefully not in a scathing review. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, thank god. **

"Bella this is Jacob Black, you remember the Black's don't you? We used to go fishing with them." Charlie turned to introduce his glum daughter with clear hesitation, she stuck out her hand awkwardly to the Native American boy waiting for him to shake it.

"Jacob… holder of the heel." She stared at him with curious dark eyes causing Jacob to twist backwards, "In Hebrew." She clarified as if for his benefit, he nodded dumbly waiting for her attention to turn somewhere else.

To put it mildly Isabella scared the shit out of Jacob Black, he looked to his father for help but the crippled old chief only shrugged and smiled at Charlie. Hadn't he seen the girl's eyes, dark like a demon's? Jacob would have given anything to run off in the other direction if he had any choice.

"Am I scaring you?" she asked bluntly still scrutinizing him with a faint smile. Did she scare him? The answer to that would have been hell yes she scared him. At first he only noticed the fact that she was a looker, he was a teenage boy what else was he supposed to notice. But then her pale skin pigment struck him, she was pale as the moon, as the snow covering the mountains. She had been wearing an old fashioned long dark skirt, a turtleneck sweater and a rosary. Her dark hair had been held in a simple, long braid falling down her back. She looked as if she had just attended someone's funeral.

"Just a little bit." He replied watching her eyes light up in amusement, they weren't really black more a very dark brown. The sort of black that people often mistook for his own hair and eye color, but his eyes had never looked that cold.

"Charlie didn't tell you why I came to Forks did he?" she asked abruptly, looking as if she were going to tell him some horrible secret. Some secret he didn't want to hear about any time soon. Jacob shook his head quickly, trying to convey the fact that he just didn't want to talk to her anymore.

"I hate this place Jacob, I hate the people here, and they hate me too. But it was better than being in Phoenix, besides Charlie is my legal guardian. It was only natural I come here, it was going to happen eventually." She sighed slowly, staring at the trees waving in the breeze. Jacob didn't like Isabella, he could tell her that much. He didn't care if she was good looking, he didn't care if she was his father's best friend's daughter, he didn't care if she went off and married his own best friend. He never wanted to see her again.

"And you hate me too, don't you Jacob Black?" her voice pierced through his thoughts, leaving him with nothing to do but nod once more and pray she left him alone. She smiled and turned back towards her house, away from her monster of a truck and into her lair. He sighed in relief and swore to himself that he would never come near her house again.

But sometimes he found himself thinking about her, in the middle of the night while staring at the sky. He wondered where she had found such dark, cold eyes underneath the desert sun. Then he would blink and the thought would be gone with the sight of the moon. Because to some people Isabella was no more than an idle thought, and not an obsession.

_Bella premunt hostilia _

_Our enemies besiege us_

Isabella Swan only had a glimpse of her end, she saw him approach the silver car, his pale face concealed beneath the wide brimmed hat and dark scarf, a single garnet eye unhidden. He was not tall, nor was he particularly menacing, he seemed to fade into the snowfall despite the shadows he clothed himself in. An extension of night overlapping into the morning, a wraith of smoke hidden beside the silver breath of snow.

The demon boy paused, his eyes growing wide, fear upon his face unnoticed by the mob of people surrounding them. Witnesses, she reminded herself diligently, only a fool would strike with a witness present, with their human eyes watching. A single glimpse and the stranger was gone, lost in a snowstorm of doubt and fear. A blink of her dark eyes and he had disappeared from view, out of thought, out of mind.

Later that night in her room, surrounded by her research and paranoia, she would glance over the stranger his dark clothing blending into her subconscious, his single garnet eye forgotten in her remembrance of another set of charcoal eyes, a demon's eyes she had said once, the eyes of a monster worse than death. Azrael gone mad, the blood dripping from his mouth, wings stretched skyward, the chord of death hanging limp from his pale hand.

It was the one that she did not see, the one she had not prophesized and prepared for, it was the man like smoke that orchestrated her demise, his gloved hand outstretched toward her, his gaze beckoning to her, his face hidden from her farseeing mortal gaze.

She did not have a chance to glimpse her last human sunrise, to see the great bleeding orb which streaked down into the heavens, the great dying sun, spilling over the trees and clouds in great cascades, rapidly bleeding to death. Her life ended far too soon for such a sight.

The waning moon hung low in her window as her eyes drifted shut, her paranoia dwindling into nothingness, burning itself out in one last spark. Even in sleep she knew something in her was dying. But she couldn't bring herself to watch the falling star.

_Da robur, fer auxilium _

_Give us strength, bring us aid_

He stood before the wooden cross, his crimson eyes roving over its surface, his mouth set into a grim frown, his hands clasped behind his back as he examined the religious carving. Finally he turned to the coven, a sigh on his lips, his eyes narrowed. "I did not come to start a war," He said finally, his voice softer than the moonlight which fell upon their immortal faces.

And yet the cross still watched, it's wooden eyes older than the earth, he wondered what man they had set screaming against its polished surface, what man had his wrist's hammered into that carved surface. The wooden eyes of the Christian god stared down upon him, his hands covered in the blood he had never asked for. The chanting of the priests rose around him, the voices calling towards the heavens, and him standing in the shadows…

"I did not come for Volterra, I did not come on any errand of theirs, but rather one of my own. Such a pity my plans always go awry, in the end I will always be a servant of the trinity, whether I like it or not. Fate is a cruel mistress." His words were bitter, sharp as silver cold as blood, he could see them behind their façade of humanity. The golden family looked horrified at the sight of him, the reminder of what they truly were behind their human clothes and impersonations.

Which of them he wondered carved the cross all those years ago? For it was an old device, he had not seen them in Rome, he had not seen them in the crowds. But what did that mean, for it seemed as if the whole world had been there, staring at the blood of the criminals dripping down towards the unsoiled earth. All the world claimed to be there, but who else but him had tasted the blood?

He held the picture of the girl in his mind, her dark hair swinging as she walked away from him, the accusation and hatred in her black eyes, her pallid complexion making her seem a child of mist rather than flesh. He had not come for the girl, he had come for his own reasons, it was fate who had a different plan in mind.

"She doesn't know, I swear we never told her, she doesn't know." The boy was desperate, his golden eyes wide with fear. It was his mind that had produced the image of her, laughing, staring, a ray of sunlight in a dark desolate night. And for that Daedalus managed a smile.

Such innocence was not easily found in Europe. That was the Americas mindset in him. A vampire of the twentieth century, full of such optimism, such hopes and dreams they held in their pale hands. A child of the enlightenment, spreading his ideals through childish golden eyes. Such beacons of light did not last in the shadows that swathed the old world.

"Perhaps not now, but I am old. And you, for all your denials, are still only a child. If you haven't told her then she will find out on her own, how long can you run from her eyes? You'll find that they can see quite easily behind your mask. We aren't nearly so clever as we think we are." The bright wings of sunlight were fading in the realization of his folly, the wax began to drip, and there he was, Icarus falling to his grave and his youthful ambition with him. A golden child falling from the heavens, a dream of a raven lost in his heart.

He remembered the flight, watching the child fall with the golden wings. Ambition had been his folly, but it was youth that had betrayed him. Why was it always the child who bore the consequences? Why was it always the boy who bore the golden wings?

"You're wrong you know," and again the vision of darkness, the girl and her black eyes which burned into the soul. She lingered in his mind, knowing what he must do, and he damned her for it. For there was no choice, nothing for him to do but act. For his people, for his conscience, for the girl. How he hated them all.

"It does not take a seer to know the path that you have made for her. You have lead to her destruction, you will destroy her with your mere presence. Suppose I leave now and I never return, Volterra will know, they will see you with their crimson eyes. And what will you do when they come for her? My people make no exceptions, not even for children." He began to pace, the crosses malignant gaze trapped upon his back, the eyes of the watchmaker looking down upon him. The Volturi would not let the girl go, because she had the power to defy them, with her brown eyes and her secluded mind she could destroy them. And the gods were never willing to take such a chance.

He paused breathing in the night air, the moonlight, the darkness, the scent of the innocent and death on their tails. A window into the indigo sky and the stars that kept it aloft, it had been years ago that he had believed in such pinpoints of light, but now they were being drowned out by the living and the dead were washed away in blur of color. He knew their end was coming, he could feel it in his bones, he had come for the oracle not for the girl. And yet the girl is what he received.

He had seen a vision of madness, of ash falling from the sky, he had come in faith. And yet now it was a vision of the human with her bitter eyes and dark smile, the girl with the mind closed off to the world that remained in his thoughts. The desire that was his and not his, the need to be close to her, to here the soft edge of her voice. To be ruled by the desires of another, such was always his fate, the ambitions of lesser men. His own dreams consisted of the snowfall of ash and the blessed silence as the empty church bells rang.

"No you can't do this, doesn't she even get a choice!" The boy was screaming, a child whose fantasies have been stolen from him, reality shoved in his face. That was what he got for meddling with humans, for wearing their faces and dancing with them in the paved streets, the undead were not meant for the light of the sun.

"Were you given a choice?"

The boy paused, stalled, his golden eyes widening in realization and then hardening like flint "Yes, I was and I don't regret it."

"Do you still believe in the lies you feed yourself?" A pale mask, hovering on the edge of his true features, wavering into the darkness and then his face stilled and calmed, the ripples vanished. "Not everyone is so lucky to be as gullible as you."

The child broke into, his face crumpling under the torrent of his anger, the injured pride crying out in his chest. "And you wonder why people hate the Volturi," He gave a choked laugh, before shaking his head and continuing to speak. "You wonder why they spit at your feet when you pass by…"

"I've never wondered about such things, I may wear the cloak of the death but I am not a fool." The cross hung, the eyes of the Christian god staring down upon him as they had always done. It had been a long time since he was free of those omniscient vengeful eyes. "Pray your god has mercy on our souls,"

_Sit sempiterna Gloria_

_(May you always be praised)_

Through the fire she heard a voice, like the whistling of the wind through the branches it's low tone haunts her through the torment. "Forgive me," it said through the internal flame, through the torture and the screaming. But the screaming drowns him out and she couldn't see, the flames were so bright.

(The closet is so dark, the clothes sticking to the sweat on her skin, and the crack, the one sliver of light and the demons peering in. The stifiled screaming, it is so loud, but she must be silent or they'll find her. The blood, the blood…)

She floated down a river of torment, the Styx remained dark even through the fire in her limbs, she was screaming yet no one heard for Hell is a lonely place. Her limbs were being torn apart and her mind with them, she felt nothing and everything, her skin was burning.

(Abandon hope all ye who enter here…)

All thoughts fled in the torment, time escaped her and yet it hung upon her shoulders, pressing down upon her mortal limbs. She wandered through the inferno, her mind straying to images it had near forgotten, her mother's face, the blood, so much blood, dripping from their hands…

The demon boy, the boy with the black eyes, and then the smoke drifting away into the distance. New images appear, the shadowy figure carrying her away, Hades dressed in cloak and scarf, down the river Styx like the ways of old…

(The angel of death had no wings, and in his hand he carried no scythe or cord…)

She was dead with her eyes open, for she saw the colors of the world rushing by, a flash of light, the reds sweeping over her, the shaking limbs and the fire burning away at her wasted flesh. She had always wondered what death felt like, to be ripped limb from limb, but never had she imagined the fire.

The thoughts were fleeting, drowned in the sea of flame, in the pain that engulfed her. She was the pain, sweeping, crashing, folding in on itself. She lost herself to the immenseness of it, and yet her heart still beat so painfully, and all the while the screaming continued.

(The closet, trapped in the dark, their bodies lying alone, the blood seeping from their torn limbs. The silence, she screams to fill the silence, because there is nothing there but the blood and the torn arms. Her mother's hand, she could see the golden ring, stained with the crimson blood…)

The images flashed before her, the world behind a blind man's eyes, she saw everything behind those closed lids, she saw the forest waving goodbye, she saw the sunset in the desert, the bleeding orb blending into the desert sand. Red eyes, crimson eyes staring down, the screaming, the fire burning bright.

(The closet door was painted white, the handle was silver. But stepping out everything was red, a streak of paint across the door, a splatter, the whiteness stained with blood. Like a candy cane, it came in stripes, the scarlet liquid dripping down towards the floor. The door was stained with blood, the door was stained with blood…)

She reached out for something, her hand trembling in the black abyss, something held her back. The silence, she fought against the silence and the flames. It was so very dark in the closet, trapped beside the sweaters and jackets, so very dark. All the color is outside and she cowered before it. She didn't want to open her eyes, to see the flame and fire, the blood painting the sky. So dark, so very dark…

The silence sounded like the clanging of church bells, the unsung requiem, the rose petals fell from the sky, white tears of heaven. Someone was dying, a star was falling, someone's soul was departing. The little girl with the matches, striking away at them, one by one.

The bitter flame, so small against the cold, the cold was burning in the darkness. The little match girl with the brown eyes, the eyes of the forest forgotten. Only one match left, burned away in her hand. Only one left, and then… The star falling away into darkness.

It was the twilight which remained.

**Author's note: Forgive me for taking so long to update, as you've no doubt concluded I am not a Meyer fan thus I find it hard to be inspired by… Twilight at all. I saw the graphic novel recently, and I am disgusted. That aside major plot point here where we completely diverge from the set plot. From this point on it will take us quite a while to get back to well known characters. Sorry bout that. **

**Reviews? **


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